A Hundred Words for Hate (14 page)

Invisible feelers trailed from his drifting form, leading from his armored body down to the planet below.

Zophiel knew the answers were there, and he would find them. All he needed was patience.

The feelers drifted across the surface of the Earth, telling him much about the place to which the Almighty had taken such a shine. It was a special world filled with a myriad of life, and bountiful resources, and so much more, but the answers still eluded him.

The Cherubim felt his anger begin to spike, and he resisted the temptation to descend upon the planet, laying waste to its vast cities until the answers to the mysteries in question revealed themselves to him. It was an option that he was seriously considering when he felt the first twinge.

Like a spider in its web, Zophiel felt the thrum of an ancient power through the tendrils of webbing that trailed from space to the planet below. It had not been there before, but now it was.

Just a hint of something that had once been hidden.

A taste.

The Cherubim drifted in the cold of space, ready to act upon the next sign. And it came again: another faint tremble in the ether, vibrating up through the invisible line from the earth below.

Zophiel squinted his many eyes, following the connection from space, down through the atmosphere and clouds. It was there that he would find what he was searching for.

Spreading his massive wings, the Cherubim dropped from the stars in search of answers.

Heaven help any who dared stand in his way.

Steven Mulvehill pulled up in front of Fernita Green’s house a little after six, and again considered what he was doing.

Taking one last puff from the cigarette in his mouth, the homicide cop shoved the smoldering remains into the open ashtray, which resembled a kind of cigarette cemetery, the butts sticking up like tombstones.

Leaning over in the driver’s seat, he looked out the passenger window at the house across from him.

He’d received his friend’s message after a particularly grueling day on a Charlestown double homicide with no witnesses, or at least that was what they were saying. The folks of that particular Boston neighborhood had their own ideas on justice and how to handle things. He’d seriously considered ignoring Remy’s text, but realized that his alternative—at least three hours of paperwork—wasn’t any more attractive.

Remy had talked about this Fernita Green and what a hot shit she was a few times, and Steven had even said that he would get a kick out of meeting her, but the real reason he didn’t say no was because of who was asking the favor.

How could somebody say no to an angel of Heaven?

It sounded fucking stupid even as he thought it, but there was some semblance of truth even with the stupidity.

To most, Remy Chandler was just a guy, a relatively good-looking middle-aged private investigator. Nothing more than that.

But Steven knew otherwise.

He knew some of the details: that Remy had left Heaven after some war, fed up with all the bullshit that was going down as a result of the conflict, and ended up here. He’d been hanging around Earth for a really long time, eventually becoming a private eye, falling in love with an amazing woman, and losing her to cancer.

Mulvehill was sure there was more, all kinds of details connected to what Remy actually was, and the reality of the kind of world in which Steven was living where a warrior angel every so often had to deal with a situation like the impending Apocalypse, or that the Devil was taking control of Hell again.

Yeah, weird shit happened, but it was the kind of shit that Mulvehill would rather not know about. Just being privy to the knowledge that Remy wasn’t really human was more than he cared to know, a peek into a reality that, because of his friendship with Remy, he now knew existed, and wished that he didn’t.

The pair had a rule when they were together. The weird shit was kept to a minimum. Steven believed that this rule was a good thing, helping to keep Remy grounded in his attempt to be as human as the next guy, and it also prevented Steven from knowing things that he shouldn’t.

Things that weren’t meant for someone like him to know.

So he had driven all the way from Boston to Brockton in rushhour traffic, no mean feat, out of respect for what Remy was, and the things he had done in service to humanity, but mostly he did it because Remy was his closest friend.

And, of course, he’d been promised dinner at the Capital Grille, and a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Macallan.

Score one for the homicide cop!

Steven left the warmth of his car and walked up to the house. It was a nice place, a Dutch Colonial, but it was starting to look a little run-down.

Remy had mentioned that he thought Fernita might be showing the first stages of Alzheimer’s. He could understand why Remy had asked him to check up on the woman. Steven wasn’t entirely sure of the connection between the old woman and the private eye, vaguely recalling something being said about her hiring him to find something that she had lost, but that was all Steven could remember.

He walked up the wooden steps onto the porch and wondered if Fernita knew that he was coming. He had called Remy about an hour ago to ask that very question, but the call hadn’t gone through.

Standing in front of the door, he hoped that Remy had mentioned him in passing to the old gal, so that he was at least vaguely familiar to her. Raising a knuckle, he rapped on the glass panel. Steven waited a little longer, pulling the collar of his winter coat up tighter around his neck, before knocking again. There was still no response, so he leaned into the door, listening, and heard movement from inside.

“Fernita?” he called out, knocking again a little louder. “Hi, I’m Steven Mulvehill . . . Remy Chandler’s friend? He asked me to stop by.”

The sounds inside grew louder, more frantic.

“Fernita?” he called again. “Is everything all right?”

Steven was reaching for the doorknob when the door came suddenly open, and Steven stood face-to-face with an older black woman who could only have been Fernita Green.

“Hi,” he said again. “I’m Steven. . . .”

And then he noticed the look on her face, and the wild glint in her eyes behind her thick glasses—never mind the fact that she was wearing green rubber gloves.

“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” she said furiously. “Everything’s coming together and here I am at the door talking with the likes of you. Get offa my porch or I’ll call the police,” she snarled, ready to slam the door in his face.

Mulvehill was startled. This wasn’t the nice old woman Remy had talked about; this lady was crazy with a capital C.

“I
am
the police, Fernita,” Mulvehill told her, placing a hand on the door to keep her from closing it. “And Remy Chandler . . . You remember Remy, right? He asked me to stop by . . . to make sure you were . . .”

She abruptly turned her back, leaving the door open as she disappeared inside the house muttering to herself.

Steven had no idea what to do. He stood there for a moment, then took a deep breath and followed her in, carefully shutting the door behind him. “Fernita?” he called out. “Hey, Fernita . . .”

He immediately noticed the stacks of magazines and newspapers just inside the door. Remy had hinted that she was a bit of a hoarder, and from what he could see he had to agree.

“Hello?” he called again, moving tentatively down the hallway, turning slightly to the side to avoid knocking over any piles.

“Remy was worried, and asked me to . . .” Mulvehill came to the archway into the living room and found his voice immediately stolen away.

The amount of stuff . . . Boxes and bags and stacks and piles were everywhere, making it look as though she were packing her things to move, but he knew that wasn’t the case.

He couldn’t see Fernita, but he could hear her.

Mulvehill gingerly stepped into the room, careful not to disturb anything as he searched. He found her in a far corner, on her hands and knees, a bucket of dirty, soapy water beside her. She was using a brush and scrubbing at a section of wall in front of her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes going to the strange writing in black that she was working hard to erase. Mulvehill stared at the writing, his eyes tracing over the unknown alphabet, certain that he had never seen anything quite like it before, and he felt the hair at the back of his head begin to stand up, and he realized that this wasn’t just a case of him being asked to check in on a potentially sick old woman.

No, this was more than that.

This was one of those other cases . . . the cases that he preferred that Remy not talk about.

It was one of those weird-as-shit cases.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Mulvehill muttered beneath his breath, watching as the old woman continued to furiously scrub at the bizarre writing on the wall.

Desperate to make it go away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Arkansas, 1932

F
raciel drove the blade of the Enochian dagger through the angel’s heart, closing his eyes as he listened to the final cries of the once-Heavenly creature.

The angel tried to escape him, spreading its powerful wings and flapping wildly in a futile attempt to take flight, but Fraciel held him tight as he twisted the blade, stealing away the angel’s last bit of strength.

“Nothing personal,” he said softly as he lowered the body of the angel to the wet ground of the alley—a soft Southern rain falling upon them.

The angel, who had taken the human name of Luke, looked up at him with wide dying eyes.

“F . . . Fra . . . Francis,” he said in a strangled voice as dark blood oozed up from somewhere inside him and ran from the corners of his gaping mouth. “Why?”

Fraciel—
Francis
—did not respond. Instead, he removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit coat and cleaned the angel’s black blood from his blade. But the question echoed inside his troubled mind.

Why?
It was something he’d asked himself a lot recently
.

Why?
Because God said so. That was why.

Francis was a killer for the Allfather, ending the lives of those who ran afoul of Heaven, penance for his own terrible sin.

He watched as Luke died on the filthy ground, his last breath trailing off in a whistle as the light of life left his eyes.

He had found this particular angel in the tent of a traveling church revival on the outskirts of Oak Bluff, Arkansas, preaching to those who believed that the Lord God was actually watching them.

Francis had been amused; as far as he knew, the only ones being watched were those humans who posed some sort of threat to Heaven and angels who had escaped to Earth after the Great War to avoid punishment. But the country was in the grip of a depression, and people were desperate.

Desperate for God to notice them.

Francis had attended the revival meetings, participating in the fervent praise to God, waiting for the opportunity to carry out his mission. Finally, at the end of a particularly zealous meeting, he had approached Luke, and although he was able to mask his true identity, even to other angels, Luke must have sensed a kindred spirit.

For some reason, Francis had allowed friendship to blossom, breaking his own cardinal rule. Though it was painful to admit, he had enjoyed having a friend, and hated to see it end in such a way.

But there was no choice.

Francis could sense his Masters’ impatience, and knew it was time to finish the job. He and Luke had been passing out flyers announcing a special meeting dedicated to asking for God’s forgiveness, and were on their way back to the revival tents when Francis saw his opportunity, suggesting they take a shortcut through the alley.

Luke had been so happy, brimming with excitement at the chance to preach God’s mercy to such a large gathering. Francis could practically feel the energy radiating off of him.

God’s mercy indeed.

Briefly, Francis wished it didn’t have to end this way, but he had no choice. He too awaited forgiveness, and if that was ever to happen, he had to kill this angel, and any other deemed an enemy of God.

It was the price he had to pay.

The act itself had been quick, as merciful as Francis was able, but it didn’t stop the questions.

What had Luke done to deserve this?

Francis returned the dirty handkerchief and blade to his inside coat pocket and waited; it usually didn’t take
them
very long to respond after one of the divine had met his fate.

The Thrones appeared in a blinding flash, followed by a sound like all the keys on the world’s largest pipe organ being played at once. The Thrones resembled balls of fire . . . six balls of fire covered with eyes, spinning in the air before him.

“It’s done,” Francis said, glancing at the corpse at his feet.

The angelic beings remained silent, rolling in the air, sparks of divine fire spewing from their awesome forms to sizzle in the puddles that had formed on the alley floor.

Francis wanted nothing more than to get as far away from them, and what he had done, as possible.
A couple of stiff drinks are in order
, he thought. Even during Prohibition there was always a way to get good and drunk if one really wanted to; and after the night he’d had, Francis wanted to.

“What took you so long?” the Thrones asked as one, their powerful voices ringing inside his head like the bells of Notre Dame.

Francis was quiet, not sure how to answer. He didn’t want to tell them that he had actually grown fond of Luke, and had enjoyed having a friend. He could just imagine how that would have gone over.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he finally said, refusing to look into their many eyes. “It took longer than I expected.”

“Is that all?” the balls of roiling fire asked suspiciously.

“That’s all,” he answered, keeping his anger in check.

The Thrones watched him for what seemed like forever, then finally glided through the air to hover above the body of the angel. Tendrils of white flame trailed down from their revolving bodies, wrapping around the dead angel and drawing him up into their fire.